The Lockie Horror Picture Show
by B A Cucumber
Summary: What happens when the boys go to see "A Game of Shadows" or google themselves? I don't own A.C. Doyle's characters, don't own the BBC "Sherlock" and most definitely don't own the Guy Ritchie movie ... used to be triggered into a life of its own by a dare but has now returned to its original state. Complete...ly nonsensical... though, the mistakes in the blockbuster are all there.
1. A Game of Shadows

"Would you, please, stop doing that?" John hissed and nodded at Sherlock's hand nervously tapping the armrest. The detective snorted, and even though John couldn't _see_ him do so in the dark of the cinema, he knew his friend was sulking. He bit back the laughter that had built up in his chest and delved into the bag of popcorn. This was rather enjoyable.

"I want to go," Sherlock said what felt only minutes later.

"What? _Why_?" John whispered back, "You can't just walk out of the cinema. It's not done."

"Watch me," Sherlock threatened.

"Alright. Calm down. Maybe if you took some popcorn."

"I don't want popcorn. _I want to go_!"

"Shhh," a woman behind the detective was shaking her head in disbelief.

"Shut up," the young man muttered and turned to John, "This is ridiculous. Tell me why I'm here."

"To enjoy yourself. This film is about _you_! Well, _us_. I like it," John explained patiently. He knew that Sherlock was rolling his eyes at the explanation.

"_I don't_. I've seen enough. Let's go."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because _I'm_ Jude Law. Jude Law is _me_. That's quite flattering."

"Well, _I'm_ short, _I'm American_, and _I'm_ fat. I don't find that flattering _**at all**_!"

"Could you, please, keep your voice down?" the woman queried, but Sherlock just ignored her while John was muttering some polite apology.

"I haven't _made a single deduction_. So _how_ is that me?"

"He's unpredictable. He plays the violin. And he broods."

"That description would fit about everyone with a brain."

"He lives at 221B," John added, "and he's an addict."

"I'm _not an addict_!"

"But you _were_."

"Everyone was," Sherlock snarked before sighing, "And why are we in the 19th century?"

"I _told you_! It's an adaptation. They take our adventures-"

"_**Adventures**_!"

"Cases - and translate them into the Victorian period."

"God! Why would they want to do that?"

"Hasn't been done before?"

"And with good reason. Let's go!"


	2. It's all wrong

"I think it's interesting."

"_Do you_, well _have_ you noticed the shoelaces, John? The buttons? The vests?"

"What about them?" John regretted the question the moment he had asked it, preparing himself for the inevitable lecture: "Hooks, John. In Victorian times, people used hooks to bind their shoes. Those are modern shoes. The buttons are plastic. They've been cast from some synthetic material, not carved. Plus the vests have the wrong cut. They're **Edwardian**, John, everyone can see that."

"Well, I didn't notice," John spat back.

"No, because you're an idiot. And just look at those dresses, John. They're _early_ Victorian. The paper, which, by the way, wasn't even founded until 1897, says we're 1891. That pavement – is tarmac! Which wasn't invented until 1901. So how can the pavement be tarmac?"

"It's a _film_, Sherlock, you're taking this far too personal!"

"Ah yes, maybe that's because it's a film about _me_!"

"For God's sake, give it a rest."

Sherlock groaned and John knew he was fuming. Admittedly, he had missed all the aspects that Sherlock had pointed out, but then, the fact that there were some inaccuracies did not make it a bad film, did it?

"I didn't behave like that around that _woman_," Sherlock whispered under his breath.

"No, you were all smitten and shy, and depressed."

"I wasn't depressed!"

"Yes, you were. All moody and sad. Composing that song."

"I told you, it helped me think. I was perfectly collected."

"Collected enough to take up smoking again."

"Oh, don't say that as if it's a crime. Those fighting scenes are. He's totally overdoing it. He's just in it for the drama."

"Which _you'd_ never be."

"I don't fight like that. My style's quick and efficient."

"Except when you're getting strangled with your scarf again."

"Stop bringing that up."

John sighed in relief when Sherlock decided to sulk silently for a while. It didn't last long though.

"She's not your type," Sherlock waved his hand at Mary with a sneer.

"I don't have a type."

"Yes, you do."

"I _do_?" John was puzzled, "What type?"

"Oh come on, John," Sherlock said and felt for the popcorn. John handed him the bag.

"What _type_?"

"You know exactly what type," the detective smiled. John could hear the smile on his voice.

"What BLOODY type? What ARE YOU ON ABOUT?"

"Oy, keep it down!" the woman said, and Sherlock turned around glaring, "And why should we? Because a hyperthyroid canteen cook with a bad hairdresser but without a driving license feels disturbed? I'm sorry, but there are things far more important than _your_ well-being at the moment."

"Sherlock!"

The woman fell quiet.

"You're not the marrying type. You love the vagueness, the adventure, the danger._** Safe's**_not exactly up your street," Sherlock explained, and John nodded. That _did_ ring true.

"Besides, I wouldn't give you up without a struggle."

John hauled the popcorn back.

"That hansom would never have been used as a cab in the late eighteen-hundreds. Axle fracture tendency. Lots of horrible accidents around the middle of the century. I think the manufacturer was out of business by this time."

"Hmm."

"Then there's the door frames. They wouldn't have used acrylic paint in those days."

"Ah."

"Is that a watch? A watch, John. He's using a watch! A _wrist_-watch!"

"?"

"That's it. I've seen enough. It's all wrong. The houses, the directions, the menu, plus that ridiculous plot. It's all _WRONG_!"

"There _is_ Moriarty! He's a mastermind criminal."

"Well, yes, but they've mixed up the cases! _**The Fall**_, okay, I can see why that would be interesting enough. But why bring in _**His Last Cow**_ and _**The Second Brain**_? Plus you didn't meet Mary until _**The Sign of Gore**_ obviously. They're not even reading your blog!"

"They're just making a film!"

Sherlock buried his head in his hands and tugged at his hair.

The next 5 minutes passed remarkably quietly.


	3. Lockie Horror

"_Can_ we go?"

"!"

"Please, let us go."

"?"

"Please - I'm bored, John."

"No."

"I _need_ to smoke."

"_No_."

"_Now_."

"I said, _**no**_, Sherlock!"

"I could play with my lighter. John, give me my lighter."

"No way."

"I can't play with fire when it's you who's keeping my lighter."

Sherlock shuffled in his seat. John could make out wild kicks and arm movements that looked like dry runs for a swimming contest.

"John."

"What are you doing?"

"Have you noticed that there's not enough space between the rows to perform decent breast strokes?"

"No."

"No, of course, you wouldn't have noticed."

"Why is it important?"

"If the cinema is flooded, we'll be trapped."

"Yeah, but that's not going to happen."

"It might, if I had my lighter. I could just set off the sprinklers…"

"No!"

"Worth a try."

"Look, there's Mycroft."

Sherlock heaved a sigh but said nothing.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"Hm."

"He's good, isn't he?"

"Slippery and smug."

"As I said."

"And gay," the young man snickered.

"Well, you'd know better than I do," John joined in.

Sherlock laughed and took another handful of popcorn.

"That's _mine_!"

"_Bba-ntit bbap_?" Sherlock asked spitting tiny bits of popcorn into John's direction.

"No, thanks."

They sat quiet for a while before breaking into another round of laughter.

"Does he really call you Shirley?"

"No," Sherlock growled, adding, "he settled for _Lockie_," which made John giggle hysterically.

"It's not funny," Sherlock pointed out.

"Lockie," John replied laughing, at the tone of which even the detective had to smile.

"That'd make an excellent title for our latest case: _**The Lockie Horror Picture Show**_," John added, thinking back to Sherlock investigating undercover at a gay bar. In drag.

"It wasn't that bad!"

"If you say so," John spluttered remembering the cuts Sherlock had given his thighs when he was shaving his legs. He also held a precise memory of how the detective had tried to jump down the stairs in high heels.

"I turned heads," the younger man complained. _Oh yes_, John thought. It had taken himself, Lestrade and three more officers to tear a group of visibly aroused men away from _Lockie_ who had nonchalantly deduced that their motive was of a homoerotic nature.

"Come on, this won't get any better," John decided after a moment of quiet contemplation, and Lockie followed, relieved.


	4. Sexlock

At the third groan John finally turned his attention to the sulking detective who had rolled himself into his armchair, drawn his knees up to his chest, and was scrolling furiously through a web search he had started half an hour before.

"Alright. Care to share?"

Sherlock huffed and kept his eyes on the screen. John rose from the couch and walked over to stand beside his friend and have a look at whatever it was he was studying.

Porn.

_Alright_, John thought. Sherlock was looking at … _gay_ … porn. Using _his_ computer. _There __**were**__ limits_. He stepped forward and grabbed the notebook, ignoring Sherlock's unhappy wail. _Gay porn. Of all things._ John shook his head glancing over the thumbnails and stopped mid-shake when he realized what he was looking at.

_Porn_.

_Gay porn_.

_Of himself and Sherlock_.

"What the-"

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock nodded and re-claimed the notebook.

"Sherlock, what _is_ this?"

"Obvious, isn't it? We seem to have created a fandom. Sexlock by name. Or Johnlock."

"Yes, I can see that. But _why_?"

"Apparently some people, avid readers of your blog I might add, have a rather vivid imagination."

"Of us shagging."

"Hardly a surprise."

"This is disgusting!"

"Not at all, some of it's done quite professionally. There are some photographs-"

"Yeah, _**alright**_. I get it. So apart from the … cruder stuff, there's, _what_, artistic … homoerotica?"

Sherlock nodded and clicked on a drawing. It was well-done, a few simple lines capturing both of their bodies, faces recognizable, body language quite authentic, except that Sherlock was kneeling between his legs, giving him a …

"_What_?" John stared at Sherlock who was glancing up at him with a crooked smile on his lips.

"It seems they see _me_ as the … submissive partner," he said, his smile broadening, and John let out a moan, trying to take the computer from the other man, "If that were so, you'd give up _right now_ and hand me my computer!" At which, uncharacteristically, Sherlock raised his hands in surrender and allowed John to take the computer from him. The little smile did not leave his face as he did.


	5. Sherlotter & the Purple Shirt of Sex

"What made you look _that_ up?" John ventured when they were having dinner, later that night.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, "Look _what_ up?"

"You know bloody well _**what**_!"

"Oh," came the nonplussed reply, "I come across it when I _googled_ myself."

"You googled yourself!"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"What else did you find?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and played with his spaghetti which he had moved from the right side of his plate to the left and back again exactly three times now. John was itching to take both the fork and the meal from Sherlock, but then chances were that the thin young man might want a bite. John did not want to starve him. Still, the childish behavior unnerved him.

"First entry's a link to wikipedia which is fair enough. Then there's that horrendous movie you made me watch. My website, your blog, some disturbing fan sites dedicated to all sorts of things related to us like 'The Purple Shirt of Sex' which, by the way, is at 778 facebook likes," Sherlock pulled at his shirt in disbelief, "beavers, otters, and our furniture."

"Our _furniture_?" John stared at Sherlock and lowered his fork.

"Yes, our furniture. Apparently there is this bizarre theory that the couch and the armchair are in a romantic relationship." John frowned and his eyes wandered to the armchair in front of the fireplace.

"What about the beavers and otters?" he asked then, dreading the answer.

"_Ah_! The animologist theory. Well, it suggests that I am an otter while you are a beaver in a striped shirt."

"Whoever came up with that rubbish?"

Sherlock shrugged and informed him that there was photographic evidence as well as a cartoon series backing up the theory. John resumed eating and tried to imagine the kind of person who posted ideas like these online. Sherlock continued about a number of animology tests which he had taken and which proved the theory wrong as those tests had him resemble a blue fox while John had turned out to be a badger. He eventually stopped talking and drew a circle into his heap of spaghetti. Then he pouted and lowered his voice to a bashful tone, "Do _you_ think my shirt is '_sexy'_?"

John scratched his head with his free hand and hummed, "It's a shirt, right … although it _is_ purple. No offense, Sherlock, but that's a rather metrosexual colour. It is shiny. It _is_ tight-fitting. And it reveals quite a bit of skin when you leave it half-buttoned. Like now. So I'm saying, _no_, it's not sexy. Not at all." Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"It's called sarcasm, Sherlock. Of course, that shirt looks bloody hot on you!" John regretted it the moment he had said it and blushed.

"They made me 'Sexiest Man in the World,'" Sherlock said hesitantly.

"I know. I saw it in the paper," John sighed, "It's an honor."

"I decline," Sherlock shot, "John, I'm a _freak_. I'm not an attractive person. I'm smart but that's it, John. Just _look_ at me. I'm … different."

"Yeah," John nodded, "that's the point."

Sherlock made a dramatic noise and stabbed his food, "I also have a _doppelgänger_."

At this, John looked up curiously.

"The BBC is making a series, some real-life documentary, except that it's not. They're using actors. And I've seen pictures of us," he paused, "They scare me, John."

"So who are we, then. I mean, who is us?"

"Yours is called Freeman. Martin Freeman, I believe. Never heard of him."

John nodded and smiled, "I know him. He's nice. Yeah, I can see that. That works."

"Mine's some Dominic Cumberbatch."

"Don't know him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He's got _red_ hair! And a godawful taste in clothes!"

"So you don't see yourself as a red-head."

"No!" Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair, ""He's good, that … guy. He's wearing a wig or something. He's really … good." Worried, the young man walked into the sitting room and picked up his violin.

"He's an actor. Would be sad if he couldn't make himself look different."

Sherlock nodded, "But what if Moriarty approaches him? To _do_ something. People would think he's _me_!"

"Hmm," John finished his plate, "I see what you mean – why don't you talk to him, explain your situation?" Sherlock stared and scratched the back of his head with his bow. Then he slowly nodded, "Yes, I think I will."


End file.
